


the same as they always had been

by violetclarity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, F/F, Harry Potter Epilogue Compliant, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied Sexual Content, Infidelity (not between Hermione and Ginny), Unhappy Ending, cheating on spouses, long term affair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-17 06:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16089932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetclarity/pseuds/violetclarity
Summary: All of a sudden, stretching out before them, she saw the truth of their future: the future where Hermione married Ron, and she married Harry.The one where Ginny and Hermione have a long-term affair.





	the same as they always had been

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful **frnklymrshnkly** for beta-reading!
> 
> I’m doing this thing where I use classic harry/draco tropes for f/f stories as a way to get myself to write more of them – this is my take on long-term infidelity.

It started when Harry and Ron entered Auror training, and Ginny and Hermione returned for their final year of schooling alone.

They began to spend more time together. They’d always been friendly, close even, but largely with different circles of friends. Many of Ginny’s friends had chosen not to return, for one reason or another – Neville had applied and been accepted to a magical university in America; Luna had declared that she wanted to be more hands-on, and run off to Switzerland; Dean had entered a Muggle art program. The returning seventh and eighth years of each house were grouped together, as there were so few of them, and Ginny found herself in the same classes as Hermione for the first time in her life.

This lead to the realization that, while she’d always known that Hermione was smart, she had never quite internalized that _Hermione_ was fucking _brilliant._ Stories about her intelligence had always been filtered through Ron and Harry, who each loved Hermione deeply but didn’t completely understand her, or their other classmates, who understood her even less and didn’t have the care for her that balanced it out. _Annoying,_ and _grating,_ and _bossy, what a know-it-all,_ were the things the older Gryffindors – and Slytherins, and Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs – had always whispered. It wasn’t until the day when Hermione correctly solved an Arithmancy problem before their professor had finished copying it onto the board, then tore a hole in Terry Boot’s debate argument in their mandatory Muggle Studies class, that Ginny fully realized not just her brilliance, but how underappreciated Hermione had been for most of her schooling.

It cast her in a new light for Ginny. She’d always been content to understand Hermione by way of Harry and Ron – they were, after all, Hermione’s best friends, and Ginny knew the boys better than she knew Hermione. They had more in common, Ginny and Harry and Ron – she didn’t know how to talk to girls like Hermione. Hadn’t known, before she had to learn that year, before she realized that maybe Harry and Ron weren’t the most reliable sources of information on Hermione, and that maybe Ginny could find out more herself.

The first time it happened they were up late and alone in the common room. Hermione was working her way through a gruelling problem set for Ancient Runes, and Ginny was reading ahead in her Potions textbook, when she looked up and noticed that Hermione was crying.

“Hermione! What’s wrong?” she said, going to sit next to her on the sofa. Hermione dropped her parchment on the low table in front of her and sniffed, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

“It’s– nothing, it’s fine,” she said. 

Ginny argued, “It’s clearly _not_ fine.” 

Hermione relented. “It’s just so much to catch up on,” she said. “And it’s so different being back here, after last year, and– I mean, I kept up on everything as much as I could, but it’s not even that, it’s just– I’ve always loved school, but I feel like I’m just not suited for it anymore. Going to classes and doing my homework, and that being all there is to worry about. Maybe Ron and Harry had the right idea, not coming back…” Here she trailed off, closing her eyes. This close, Ginny could see the teardrops hanging from her eyelashes.

“I thought everything would feel the same, but it doesn’t,” Hermione whispered.

Impulsively, Ginny leaned forward and hugged her. “I know,” she said. “I thought this year would be different too.” She squeezed a little tighter, feeling Hermione’s arms wrap around her in return. The shoulder of her shirt was starting to go damp with Hermione’s tears. “You’ve got me here, though,” she said. “It’s just a year. We can make it through together.”

Hermione laughed a little at that, but didn’t pull away from the hug. They sat there holding each other for interminably long minutes, and when they finally pulled apart, it seemed only natural that they would lean in, and their lips would meet.

It was the most delicate first kiss Ginny had ever had. She could barely taste the salt from Hermione’s tears, at first, until Hermione brushed their lips together a second time, stronger, and brought one palm up to cup Ginny’s jaw. Ginny tilted her head, responding in kind, wrapping a hand around the base of Hermione’s neck and humming as the kiss deepened. Beneath the taste of tears was the bitter sweetness of the chocolate bar they’d shared after dinner. When Hermione’s tongue ran along the edge of Ginny’s lip, she gasped.

The sound was like an alarm bell. Hermione jumped back, her eyes wide and her lips red. Ginny was sure her own appearance was worse, her pale skin carrying a blush easily.

“We can’t,” Hermione said, and then, as though correcting herself from a factual error, since recent evidence pointed to the fact that they clearly _could,_ she said, “We shouldn’t.”

“I…”

Ginny didn’t know what she was going to say. _You started it,_ maybe, but that would be a lie. _I know_ or _I agree_ would be appropriate, but it didn’t matter, as Hermione was standing up, piling her books into her arms instead of spelling them into a stack like she usually did, as if she’d forgotten she could do magic.

“I’m going to bed,” she told Ginny, and fled.

Ginny understood that she was meant to wait, to give Hermione time to hide behind her bed curtains, before following her upstairs to their shared dormitory, and so she did.

<><><>

It didn’t stop there.

The next time they were alone in the common room, late at night, it happened again. One moment Ginny was doing an impression of Slughorn fawning over Hermione’s potion, and Hermione was laughing, and Ginny was thinking _thank Merlin I can still make her laugh, we’re going to be okay,_ and the next they were snogging on the floor in front of the fireplace, on their sides with their arms tight around each other’s backs, until Ginny tried to push Hermione onto her back and Hermione pushed her off and ran.

The third time Hermione tried to rationalize it. “We’re just lonely,” she told Ginny. “The boys are gone, and we’ve just survived a war; it’s a perfectly reasonable course of action.”

“Of course,” said Ginny.

“It’s only natural to desire that kind of closeness, that physical fulfillment, especially after a year of so much death and loss. It doesn’t mean we want the boys any less.”

“Right,” said Ginny. Hermione said _the boys_ like it was a given that they’d go back to them once this was done. Hermione and Ron had been dating all summer, sharing a room in Grimmauld Place before Hermione moved back to school. Ginny and Harry had never talked about it, but after a few frantic snogging sessions in her room at the Burrow, it seemed like everyone had decided they too were a couple once again.

It made Ginny feel itchy. She hated that everyone else thought they knew what she wanted. She hated that she wasn’t completely sure what she herself wanted. Ginny loved Harry, of course. She was relieved beyond measure that he had lived through the war. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to be his wife.

And Hermione – well. Ginny didn’t understand why Hermione wouldn’t acknowledge what was happening between them, or even admit that she was attracted to Ginny.

Hermione hated excuses – except, apparently, when she was the one making them, because she kept up a similar line of dialogue for the next few weeks, and they continued in much the same way as they had been – frantic kissing and full-body rubbing in the empty Common Room, in the unoccupied classroom down the hall from the library, and once behind the curtains of Hermione’s four-poster bed.

They didn’t go any further until the end of November.

It was a Hogsmeade weekend, and Harry and Ron had come to spend the day with them. Ginny and Hermione had left the castle early, and they’d all shared lunch at the Three Broomsticks before splitting off to spend some time alone. Ginny didn’t know what Hermione and Ron had gotten up to, but she assumed it was something similar to what she and Harry had done – taken a cursory look into Honeydukes before making their way to the loo, spelling the door closed, and snogging like their lives depended on it, Harry’s hand finding its way beneath her skirt as he pressed her up against the wall before she sank to her knees and returned the favor.

Harry’d walked her back up to the castle, kissing her goodbye at the gate. His body was warm against hers in the chill air, and she was struck again by a wave of gratitude that he had survived.

Hermione wasn’t at dinner, or in the Common Room that night. Ginny assumed she wouldn’t see her ‘til the morning, and was almost asleep when familiar hands parted the curtains of her bed.

She sat up, squinting to see who it was. “Hermione?”

Hermione didn’t respond. She climbed onto the bed, letting the curtains fall closed behind her, and straddled Ginny before leaning in to kiss her on the mouth. The kiss went on for a long time, and Ginny became aware of her own arousal. She started to push Hermione away – they’d never let it get this far before – perhaps she’d take care of it herself once Hermione was back in her own bed– but Hermione stopped her.

“No,” she said, the whisper echoing in Ginny’s ears. The air inside the curtains was hot and already smelled of sweat and girls. “I want to.”

Hermione never offered an excuse for why she wanted Ginny like this again.

<><><>

They didn’t talk about it.

They didn’t talk about it when Hermione came to the Burrow for Christmas hols, and orchestrated switching rooms with Harry so that she was in with Ron and Harry stayed with Ginny. They didn’t talk about it when they hardly spoke for all of the break, and they didn’t talk about it when they got back to school. They didn’t talk about it when Hermione got into her top-choice graduate program and ate Ginny out in the Restricted Section of the library in celebration before she went back to the dorms to owl Ron. They didn’t talk about it at graduation, when Ron lifted Hermione off her feet and swung her around, whooping with congratulations before she kissed him. They didn’t talk about it afterwards, at the Burrow, while Molly served up all their favorite dishes and they sat across from each other at the table, Harry’s arms over Ginny’s shoulders, Ron’s around Hermione’s.

Ginny wanted to talk about it – about _them_ – but the few times she’d tried to broach the topic, Hermione had cut her off with a question about homework or a deep, filthy kiss. Ginny was worried the next time she tried, Hermione’s response wouldn’t be diversion, but refusal to continue doing anything, and she couldn’t bring herself to risk it. She didn’t know what she could say that would ring true, that would make Hermione understand. She’d never felt like this about anyone before.

So they didn’t talk about it.

Hermione moved in with Ron, and Ginny with Harry. If it seemed rather sudden to anyone else, no one said anything about it. One night in September, Ron Flooed to Grimmauld to show Harry the ring he’d picked out, and then they left to do something – plan, or celebrate, Ginny didn’t know – and Ginny Flooed immediately to Ron and Hermione’s, tumbling from the fireplace in a swirl of ash.

Hermione was sat on the couch with a glass of wine and a thick tome about law open on her lap.

“Ginny!” she exclaimed, getting up and coming to greet her. Something in Ginny’s face must have startled her. “What’s wrong?”

“Ron’s going to propose to you,” Ginny blurted out, although she hadn’t been intending to tell her. “He just came over to show Harry and I the ring.”

Hermione’s face did something imperceptible. Ginny grabbed her shoulders.

“Please tell him no,” she begged. “Please don’t say yes.”

Hermione’s face was twisted with an emotion Ginny couldn’t identify. Her hands were tight on Ginny’s waist. All of a sudden, stretching out before them, she saw the truth of their future: the future where Hermione married Ron, and she married Harry, and they each popped out two or three children, and the children grew up together, and they all grew old together, coupled off but never quite able to break away from _this,_ this fragile thing which was never supposed to be anything except a silly school dalliance but had become so much more.

Ginny had never been good with words, but she had to try. “Hermione,” she whispered. “Please. I want you. I– You don’t have to do this. We don’t have to _do_ this. We could get away from here – get away from England – go live together somewhere nobody knows us, but please, you can’t tell him yes–”

“I can’t hurt him like that,” Hermione said. “You don’t understand, I love him, I love Harry, I can’t hurt them like that,” and Ginny wanted to say that she _knew,_ didn’t Hermione know she knew? Did Hermione think it was easy for Ginny? She loved Harry, and Ron was her _brother,_ and against both of those truths she didn’t know why this thing with Hermione carried so much weight.

“We don’t have to tell them,” she said instead, appealing to Hermione’s logical side. “Just tell him no, you can’t marry him. You could make a hundred excuses – maybe if we give it time, maybe in a few years–”

“I can’t do that, Ginny,” Hermione said, and her voice was shaking, “I can’t live with you. I can’t just leave.”

“Please, Hermione. I love–”

Two fingers stopped her mouth, warm and soft and smelling like parchment.

“I wish I could say no,” Hermione said. “I wish–” And then they were kissing. The way they fell into it reminded Ginny of that first kiss, almost a year ago, but that had tasted like excitement, and innocence, and chocolate. This kiss tasted like the red wine Hermione had been drinking, and the realization of what they’d signed themselves up for, of the reality of the rest of their lives.

Ron proposed in the fall, and Hermione said yes. And in the spring, when Harry proposed to her, Ginny did the same.

<><><>

_Such a beautiful wedding._

That’s what they said, over and over, as they approached Ginny and Harry during the reception.

_Such a beautiful wedding. Such a beautiful couple._

Ginny’s dress was fitted and white. Harry looked like a hero. He beamed at her, and Ginny thought it was the happiest she’d seen him since before the war.

_He deserves this,_ she thought. And the world said it too: the war heroes celebrated the end of the fighting, pointed themselves towards new destinations, and the rest of the world could follow suit.

The message was as clear as the picture in the _Prophet,_ Ginny and Harry flanked by Hermione and Ron, a reassurance. Everyone was perfectly happy now.

<><><>

It was a running joke that Ginny was the only straight woman on the team.

The others like to talk about their conquests in front of her. They’d use phrases like _licked her pussy_ and _finger-fucked_ like they were trying to tease out if Ginny would be uncomfortable. She clenched her jaw and said nothing. What was there to say?

She could declare _I’ve done all those things, actually,_ and the question would be _with whom,_ and she couldn’t honestly answer it, especially when everyone – everyone on the team, everyone who read the paper, everyone in the goddamn wizarding world, it felt like sometimes – knew she’d been with Harry since she was sixteen.

She could say _actually I’m not straight, I’m bisexual and I think I might prefer women,_ but there would still be questions. Why hadn’t she said anything before? Why had she married Harry if she preferred women? Could she even know if she was bisexual, really, if she’d only been with a man? Angelina was bi, of course, but before she’d gotten together with George she’d had a long-term girlfriend who’d leant credulity to her claim. All Ginny had was Harry.

She might have done it anyway – come out to the team and the world – if she didn’t fear Hermione’s reaction. Harry might not even notice, probably wouldn’t care. He and Ron were coming to the end of their training, and their hours were just getting longer. Most days Harry kissed Ginny goodbye while she was still in bed, and ate supper with Ron at the Ministry. Most days Ginny was home, she had supper with Hermione, and sex depending on the hour. She’d overheard Ron telling his wife that he was glad she and Ginny had each other, to keep each other company while he and Harry were at work.

Hermione was petrified that Ron might somehow know. It was the most they’d spoken about their arrangement – relationship – whatever they were – since she and Ron had gotten married. _Are you happy?_ Ginny would ask. Or _do you ever think about if things were different?_ And Hermione would frown, as if the question confused her, and Ginny would appease her instead. _You’re beautiful, you’re gorgeous, I’ve never felt the way I do with you._

In response, Hermione left reminders. _Don’t tell Harry you’re seeing me today, I don’t want Ron to suspect,_ or _I can’t, Ron’s coming home early._ Or _is it true all the women on your team are queer? They don’t think_ you _are, do they?_

_But I am,_ Ginny wanted to scream, though she never did. It wasn’t a topic that needed to be discussed, anyway. Ginny thought, once, about asking Hermione – three little words, _are you bi?_ – but decided against it, pulling down Hermione’s trousers and going for showing, not telling, as she always did. Just another question on the list of things Ginny was afraid to ask Hermione.

<><><>

Hermione said they had to stop when Ginny had James.

All through Ginny’s pregnancy they’d carried on with the closest thing to bliss since those first few months at Hogwarts. Her sex drive had been insatiable, and whenever Harry was away for work, both he and Ron were happy for Hermione to come stay with Ginny and keep her company. They’d fuck in every room of the little cottage that Ginny and Harry had bought, talking afterwards in a way they hadn’t since Hogwarts, and then Hermione would go home to Ron, and Harry would come home to Ginny, and the process would repeat. There were days when she had Hermione on her lunch break and Harry when he came home from work, and she felt incandescent.

“Why do you say that now?” Ginny asked. They were in the nursery, and James was asleep; Ginny felt like she was always in the nursery these days. Pregnancy had made her feel buoyant and light, hormones filling her with the wonder of what she was doing, but postpartum she was crabby, and longed to go flying. The reminder that she’d quit her job, and had no team to return to anymore, made her even crabbier.

It had seemed a reasonable decision at the time, one she and Harry had discussed. They would have been able to afford a nanny, but the nanny would be watching the baby all day, and sometimes through the night, what with the Harpies travel schedule and Harry’s slow march through the Auror ranks. It had only now begun to itch.

“You’re a mother,” Hermione said, her eyes flicking towards the crib. “You have a family.”

“I had a family before,” Ginny said acerbically. Hermione, after all, was married to her brother.

Hermione looked at the floor, a tell that Ginny knew meant she was embarrassed. “You know what I mean.”

“Is it really so wrong?” Ginny said. “They haven’t found out yet. And I’ll be home alone all day now. You can come over whenever you like…”

It was the wrong approach to take. The reminder of Ginny’s new role – first _wife,_ now _mother_ – seemed to strengthen Hermione’s resolve.

“It’s too risky, especially now,” Hermione said. “James deserves both his parents’ attention.”

It struck a chord in Ginny, just as Hermione knew it would, but she couldn’t just back down.

“Please, Hermione, don’t do this. I can’t... I’m alone with him, here, all day. I quit my job, I left all my friends. Please. I can’t lose you too.”

Hermione’s face was a mask of sadness, but she still left.

It lasted a few months. Seeing Hermione only when she was with Harry, and Hermione with Ron. Sunday dinners and Saturday brunches, while James learned to laugh, and sit, and roll. On weekends, she’d leave him with Harry and wander Muggle London, staring at strangers on the tube and in the shops, wondering what secrets each of them carried. Wondered if any of them had had their hearts broken.

She always returned with a little something – a new toy for James, a new book for Harry, something exciting for dinner – so he couldn’t ask questions about where she’d gone.

<><><>

It started again when Ginny was ill with the flu, and Harry was called away to work – _it’s an emergency, Gin, you know I wouldn’t go otherwise_ – and Jamie was teething. Molly came for the weekend, and left when Ginny shouted her out of the house, _I don’t need you to tell me how to mother if all you’re going to tell me is what I’m doing wrong._ She couldn’t Floo Harry – _location not disclosed_ – so she Flooed Ron instead. He came through minutes later with Hermione in tow, and they took turns tending to Ginny and James until her fever finally broke and her only remaining symptoms were a runny nose and a cough.

The next week Hermione invited her to lunch. It couldn’t have been more innocent – the two of them at the sandwich shop down the street from Hermione’s office, sitting outside with Jamie’s buggy between them, but Ginny’s whole body _thrummed._ It was the most alive she’d felt since she was eight months pregnant. It became a routine, every Wednesday, and soon Mondays and Fridays too, and one week Hermione met her at the house instead, and turned on the monitoring spell in the nursery, then pushed her onto the couch and kissed her, grinding against her until they both came. And after that, things were much the same as they always had been.

<><><>

Their lives got busier. They were both pregnant, and then they were both pregnant again, and their husbands wanted to dote on them, to rub their hands over their bellies and kiss them and spend time surrounded by their families. Molly was thrilled by her grandchildren, and came by often to spoil them. Holidays were joyous occasions. Ginny got a new job offer – not playing Quidditch, but writing about it – and Harry encouraged her wholeheartedly to take it. And sometimes she thought that the happiest moment she’d had in those five years of babies and pregnancy, and her children always around, was the day early in her third pregnancy when Hermione had stolen her away for a spa day and taken her to the Four Seasons instead. They’d spent blissful hours naked on the silken sheets, taking pleasure from each other every way they could think of, both of their bodies shifting and changing to accommodate new life.

The children got older and playdates became the norm. With five little ones in the garden, there was hardly time to steal a kiss in the kitchen, but Ginny didn’t care. The ache of those months she’d spent without Hermione’s presence still echoed inside her, and she was grateful for every moment she got.

The children got older and they instituted _girls night,_ when they’d leave the children with their husbands and go get pizza and feed it to each other on the living room floor, or put on Glamours and go dancing at a Muggle club, or pay by the hour for a seedy motel where they’d _Scourgify_ every surface before defiling it all over again. Harry and Ron, ever guilty for the long hours they spent at work, leaving their wives alone, were more than happy for _girls night_ to become tradition. _Have fun,_ they told them. _You both deserve it._

Conversation with Hermione became a pleasure almost as guilty and decadent as sex. They discussed politics, and the books they were reading, and what their foolish coworkers did that week. For Ginny, whose conversations with Harry had long since become all about parenting – _did you pick up Lily’s rash cream from the Apothecary? Albus and James had a fight, can you go sort them out? Are you going to be late for dinner again?_ – it was unbelievably refreshing. A revelation.

They skirted along the edges of discussing their feelings. Ginny valued the break from being only _wife_ and _mother_ too much to press Hermione for more.

Ginny’d been living with the guilt so long she didn’t know if she could still identify it, separate it from the other emotions that lived in her chest: caring for her children, and worry, and affection for her brothers, and love for Hermione, and love for _Harry,_ the desire to make him happy.

She thought he was happy. He was. He was happy. He kissed her goodbye every morning, and his career was accelerating to new heights every year. They still had sex often, if not with the passion and athleticism they once did. He loved the children, their family; loved them so much that it left Ginny weak-at-the-knees grateful, and guilty, because for all she loved her children, she couldn’t help the thoughts that teased at the edge of her mind; the what-ifs, the could-have-beens, the half-remembered dreams of running away with Hermione where no one could ever find them.

Her new job got her out of the house. Albus started primary school, then Lily. She and Hermione took business lunches where they discussed everything under the sun, and _business lunches_ where they locked themselves in Hermione’s office – now located in the Ministry, just a few floors up from Ron and Harry – and reached under pencil skirts and into practical trousers until they were shuddering and moaning into each other’s mouths.

This was the limbo Ginny had feared, all those years ago when she’d begged Hermione not to say yes to her brother. Sisters in law, raising cousins who were close as siblings. The happy ending to a story of war. It was how Ginny knew the papers wrote about them – she’d developed a second sense for it, ever since Harry slid the ring onto her finger. She knew how they saw her: the golden prize for the golden boy. She knew what they’d write if they knew–

_Whore, adulteress, deviantsickwrong–_

But she couldn’t make herself stop. In all of her life, in everything that had been drawn up like a story book, all the pieces that fit, Hermione was the one that didn’t. A splash of watercolor on the coloring book page, a rosebush blooming from the grass of their perfectly maintained garden. If she couldn’t have the glint in Hermione’s eye when she laughed, the furrow in her brow when she argued a point she cared about, the taste of her lips when she let herself relax, the sound of her whimpers when she came on Ginny’s tongue – she didn’t know what she would do with herself.

<><><>

A group vacation. It was a wonder they hadn’t been subjected to it before.

<><><>

Harry was gone for the weekend, and so was Hermione. On the Saturday, Ginny took the children to a Harpies match. Only a few of the players on the team were girls she’d played with, but Ginny liked it better that way. She’d lost touch with most of them after she retired, only attending a few of the parties she was invited to before she got tired of the confused looks. It was an exciting match, and they had very good seats – James was beside himself, hanging out of the stands to get a better view, but Albus and Lily were having a good time too.

As they were leaving, Albus caught sight of Angelina, walking towards them with Fred and Roxy hanging off of either hand. She was wearing a jumper in Holyhead Green, and trousers like the players did, and Ginny remembered that she was an assistant coach now, after retiring from the team last year. The children were excited to see their cousins, and she made small talk with her sister-in-law before taking them home.

That night at dinner, Lily said how cool it was that Aunt Angelina used to play _professional Quidditch,_ and Ginny flushed.

“I used to play for the Harpies too, Lily,” she said. “Before Jamie was born. Aunt Angelina and I were Chasers together.”

That night as she struggled to fall asleep, she stared at the dark ceiling and thought about it. She’d never wanted her children to see her as just a mum, to take her for granted, the way Ginny knew she’d done to her own mother. Angelina had been able to keep playing because she’d waited to have Roxy and Fred, and because George didn’t mind hiring someone else to watch the shop so he could be there to pick up the kids from school on the days their mother wasn’t. Not for the first time, Ginny wished she’d pushed back harder, when they’d first found out she was pregnant and Ginny quitting her job to stay home with the kids had seemed like the most obvious thing to do. _There’s always another answer,_ Hermione always said. _The first solution you think of is not always the best one._

Ginny rolled over. She let her mind stretch back, as she almost never did, to the dreams she’d entertained right out of school. The life she’d imagined when she’d imagined that Hermione might not choose Ron over her. Playing Quidditch in the American league, and a little flat somewhere with Hermione. Without the pressure of being one of Harry’s seconds in command, Hermione would be able to throw her energy into the causes that actually mattered. Spending her early twenties exploring the world and exploring herself, not nursing babies and changing nappies. And maybe at the end of it, a return to England and a family where she didn’t have to eat dinner alone with her children.

_Bad, bad, bad,_ she told herself. _No use thinking of that now._ Years past the time when it would have made a difference, and she loved her children, and Hermione would never have said no to Ron anyway, would never have condoned Ginny hurting Harry like that. They’d been through a war together and that changed people, gave them a loyalty that Ginny could never understand. She’d always keep trying, though, wouldn’t she?

<><><>

Lily and Hugo were packed off to school, and it made them lazy.

No more children at home to tend; their husbands wanted to spend time with them. Ginny found Harry’s renewed attention at first sweet, and in short order, annoying. She didn’t want to have sex across the kitchen table just because there was no offspring to walk in on them. She didn’t want an hour-by-hour report of the goings on of the DMLE, every night during dinner, with no funny questions or childish interruptions from their daughter. When the children were around, Harry’s love for them became a solid, tangible thing, and it made Ginny love him more. When they were gone, it was abstract, and Ginny felt abstract too, staring across the table at her husband. Seventeen years they’d been married now. Longer than she’d been alive before they’d gotten together.

Seventeen years of a secret.

“Ron suspects.”

It was the first thing Hermione said when she stepped into the hotel room. It was a Muggle hotel, it always was, in Bristol this time, not London. She’d gone to greet her with a kiss, wanting nothing more than the feel of Hermione’s soft arms around her, but Hermione stopped her.

“Ron suspects. He confronted me about it. Not in so many words, but ‘I notice you’ve been spending more time at work lately. Anything I should know about? It is work, right?’” Hermione slumped into the chair by the desk, her purse hitting the floor. “I told him I was just trying to finish up a project. I think he bought it, but– we can’t risk it any more. I told him it would be done next week. I said–” she cut herself off with a hand over her mouth. “It’s harder now that the children aren’t here.”

“Next week?” Ginny’s voice was faint to her own ears. “You told him next week?”

Hermione nodded. “But I said it may be done before that, that things were coming along nicely, just some finishing touches, so we really _can’t–_ ” Ginny’s arms were around her, pulling her out of the chair. “Ginny–”

“Let me have you now,” Ginny said, “if we only have one more week.”

“I told him I would be home in time for dinner, I sent an owl before I came–”

“Hermione.” Ginny’s voice was wrecked and she couldn’t hide it. “It can’t have already been the last time. It can’t. Please.” Hermione was holding her body away from Ginny’s, like she was ready to make an escape. “This can be the last time. We won’t do it again. But please, please–”

She didn’t have to say anything else. Hermione was kissing her, and it tasted salty, but she didn’t know which of them was crying. They fell onto the bed and undressed each other with reverence. Ginny touched her carefully, and Hermione returned the favor. They came close to the edge many times, as if they both knew that once they crested it, this would be over, but they could only deny what their bodies wanted for so long.

Afterwards, uncharacteristically, they lay in bed. They were always rushing off – fixing hair and clothes, spelling away scents and stains, hardly even a goodbye – but not today. Ginny felt wrung out, hollow; she wondered what she would do with the rest of her stolen evening, after Hermione left. She’d told Harry it was a Harpies team reunion, likely to go all night; they had the hotel room til the morning. Maybe she’d just lie here and see if she faded away.

“I can’t believe this has been my life,” Hermione whispered.

“What?” Ginny turned her head to face her. She was still staring at the ceiling.

“I’ve been cheating on my husband for almost twenty years, and now – _now_ – he may have finally found out.”

Ginny tasted bile. How many years had she wanted and waited for Hermione to say something, to acknowledge _them,_ and now that she had, Ginny felt sick.

Hermione met Ginny’s gaze. “I don’t think he knows it’s you. He probably thinks it’s a man.”

“A man,” Ginny said. Yes, Ron would.

“I just–” Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. “I thought we might reconnect, now that we have all this time. I thought things would be better. But they’ve only gotten worse.”

_That’s because you’re cheating on your husband._ Ginny wanted to say. _Don’t tell me you still love him._ But she didn’t.

“It’s worse for us too,” she said instead. “It’s hard, them not being there.”

“Do you think we’ve been horrible?” Hermione’s brown eyes were warm and deep, giving no hint as to how she felt about the question. “Do you think what we’ve done is unforgivable?”

Ginny pushed up onto one arm, looking down at her lover. “You’ve been cheating on your husband with his sister for almost twenty years. I don’t think that’s the kind of thing you can forgive.”

Hermione was crying, or Ginny thought she was, before she sat up and covered her face. “Oh my god,” she muttered, as if the reality of their situation was only now hitting her. “ _Oh my god._ ”

Ginny knew the best thing she could do right now would be to leave Hermione alone. Let her work through these emotions before going home to her husband. Ginny should do the same. They could meet for lunch in a few weeks, a benign emotionless lunch, and work through all of this if they needed to. _This is the last time._

“This is why I asked you not to marry him,” she said.

“What?” Hermione said. Her face was tear-stained. Ginny didn’t think she’d ever seen Hermione tear-stained before.

“I told you he was going to propose,” Ginny said. “I asked you to say no.”

“And what was I supposed to say?” Hermione asked. “No, I can’t marry you because I’m fucking your sister?”

“Maybe!” Ginny burst out. “Maybe you should have! Maybe you could have saved us years of lying, of sneaking around–”

“And lost both of my best friends,” Hermione hissed, leaning forward. They were still naked, the covers rumpled around them, and it was almost hilarious, that this was how they were fighting, this was the moment– “I _love them,_ Ginny. I couldn’t hurt them like that!”

“As if I don’t love them too!” Ginny yelled. “Do you think I don’t care about how they feel? I do, Hermione, I do, but I care about you, and I care about me too.” She slid off the bed and went to the window. “Don’t you think we deserved better?”

“This was…” Hermione blew out a heavy breath. “Wrong. It doesn’t matter now – it’s over. It’s _over._ But this was doomed from the start.”

Ginny shook her head. “No, it wasn’t,” she said. “Wrong, maybe. Over, if you want it to be, _fine._ But I want you to know, there was a way this could have gone differently.” She shook her head. “Don’t tell me this was doomed from the start.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @violetclarity. Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


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